


The Son of Fire and Ice

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jon Snow, Better Than Canon, F/M, Jon Snow Deserves Better, King Jon Snow, M/M, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Multi, Sorry Not Sorry, Warg Jon Snow, a lot of this is canon, but I fixed some of it, so there might be a better ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:29:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hi! Feel free to shoot me some suggestions if you want! I'm just kind of cold typing this!
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 24
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Feel free to shoot me some suggestions if you want! I'm just kind of cold typing this!

**Tyrion**

As he walked up to the sealed catacomb, he heard a scream sound from within.

Tyrion Lannister paused on the steps as it went on and on. One of the dragons within was shrieking away. It wasn’t quite the sound he had expected, raspier and more nasal that the lion-like roar he had anticipated. And far louder. The ground trembled as its cries echoed below the pyramid.

Next to him, Varys’s smooth face was pale, “Perhaps,” the eunuch said delicately, “We might come back another time?”

“And let the Dragon Queen’s dragons continue to waste away in the darkness?” The dwarf smirked, the expression ghoulish on his scarred face. He then continued up the stairs, cursing his stunted legs by the time he reached the top, where two blank-faced Unsullied stood guard on either side of the stone that had been rolled over the entrance of the passage. 

The dragon had stopped with its cries, the silence even more unsettling. 

“I’d like in, if you don’t mind.” Tyrion spoke the Common Tongue and depended on Varys to translate it into Valyrian. The graceful language continued to prove a challenge to him; it would be many years before he could carry on conversations in it.

The Unsullied obeyed without a word, marching over the stone slab and rolling it away. Tyrion’s legs felt like jelly as he edged forward, staring into the darkness of the vault, feeling the hot air kiss his face, heavy with the pungent smell of smoke and char. He eyed the dark that clung to the depths of the catacombs like a velvet blanket, but saw nothing within.

Slowly, he inched his way down the steps. Varys followed for a few moments, but then seemed to decide better of it. He watched as Tyrion ventured forward with an anxious expression.

The first rattle of chains almost made Tyrion bolt back up the stairs, but he knew the dragons would most definitely loose their fire if he did that. There was no turning back now. He watched with a fascinated horror as a set of eyes winked from the dark, and then a wedge-shape face loomed forward as one of the dragons crawled toward him, its breath rumbling deep in its chests as it bared rows of razored black teeth.

The dragon was a dusky fawn in color, with rust red spines, frills, and wings. Its jaws parted, and blue flames played on its tongue, blooming into bright gold as the creature snarled at him, amber eyes winking in the light of his torch. 

From the shadows, the other growled. The rusty dragon-named Viserion, if he recalled correctly-then snapped its mouth shut, though it continued to bare its teeth. 

A larger face emerged to look at Tyrion. His eyes widened as he saw it had somehow managed to free itself, its chain broken as it dragged across the stone floor. This one didn’t snarl, but studied him with unnervingly dark eyes. 

Tyrion was awed. The dragons were easily as tall as draft horses, and much longer. Mostly neck, wing, and tail, though their compact torsos were round and thick with muscle despite being locked away for so long. He held a hand up and found himself talking, a tumble of words spilling from his lips.

“I’m friends with your mother.” he said.

The dragons didn’t seem impressed. Their mother had been the one to chain them, after all.

“I’m here to help,” Tyrion said, his voice coming out higher than usual, “don’t eat the help.”

The dark-eyed dragon’s head came forward, and it did bare its teeth, though the sound it made was undeniably a chuckle. It made the dwarf relax a fraction. Somehow, it had understood him. Tyrion inched forward again. The dragon permitted him to do so, though it watched him unblinkingly.

“When I was a child,” Tyrion began, “My uncle asked what gift I wanted for my name day,” In the flickering torchlight, he saw that this dragon was a rich green in color. Its head followed Tyrion’s movements, “I  _ begged  _ him for one of you,” he continued, fervent, “‘It wouldn’t even have to be a big dragon,’ I told him. It could be little, like me.”

He waited. The dragon’s did not eat him. Slowly, carefully, he set his torch on the ground. 

“Everyone laughed like it was the funniest thing they ever heard,” the dwarf said as he approached the green dragon’s side, “When my father told me that the last dragon had died over a century ago, I cried myself to sleep that night.” 

Tentatively, he reached out a hand and touched the dragon’s neck. Its hide was surprisingly smooth and hard, like boiled leather backed by steel. And hot. Tyrion knew dragons were thought to be fire made flesh, but he had never imagined the creatures to be almost unbearingly warm to the touch. 

“But here you are.”

The green dragon was silent. Tyrion studied the collar that had been clamped around it’s neck. It was utterly simple in design, a bolt securing it. He knew the dragon was free, but he was sure it wanted the collar off. With trembling fingers, he reached up and pulled the bolt out before quickly stepping back, the iron falling heavily to the ground. 

Then, without hesitation, he turned around and instantly recoiled.

Viserys’s teeth were a bare foot away from his face. The dragon growled at him, then turned his head and extended his neck. The rusty dragon shifted impatiently, so Tyrion freed him as quickly as he dared.

Once it was done, the dragon’s turned away from him, prowling into the darker recesses on their legs and wings without so much as a backward glance.

Snatching up his torch, Tyrion hurried away, anxious to get as much space as possible between him and the dragons. 

Varys was staring at him as he climbed to steps, “Next time I have an idea like that,” the dwarf told him over the rumbling breath of the dragons, “punch me in the face.”

  
  
**The Loyalist**  
  
  
  


Thorne had allowed those who wished to arrange Jon upon a funeral pyre to say their farewells. He himself was there, standing atop the walk, a hint of smug satisfaction in his otherwise somber face.

“No man was as quick with a blade, nor as genuine or honorable as he. At the wall, he served the Lord Commander before raising up to take his place. He wished to serve for the good of the realm, but his Watch has ended.”

“And now his Watch has ended,” the Brother’s echoed. 

It was time. Edd touched his torch down on one corner of the pyre, then passed. Once all four corners were lit, they watched as the flames crawled toward Jon’s body. Soon they rose high into the air, wavering gold claws that pierced the gray of the wintry sky. 

Somewhere, Ghost howled. The direwolf had been locked up by Thorne’s order. His cries were eerie and desolate in the thick silence of the vigil, and even more chilling when they abruptly ceased, leaving only the crackling of the flames to fill the air.

“Something’s wrong.”

It was Edd who spoke. The ranger eyed Jon’s corpse warily, which was nothing more than a shadow amidst the fire. 

It was impossible to hear the gasp over the flames, nor to see the rise and fall of his chest. But when the shadow in the flames moved, every Brother in the courtyard froze, their eyes wide with disbelief as they watched their fallen brother sit up amidst the fire.

Pandemonium. Half of the Brothers fled, dashing away as fast as they could. The braver men drew their swords, no doubt thinking that Jon had been claimed by the Others. Edd could only watch as Jon screamed and scrambled out of the fire. The snow sizzled as he fell onto it, his armor glowing cherry red and steaming in the cold air. His breaths were ragged gasps, and his soot-stained hands visibility trembled as he stared at them, eyes wide and face pale with terror.

Thorne stalked forward, but Davos stopped him. The old man only raised his shortened hand, pale eyes full of caution as he turned to watch Jon.

Amidst the chaos, Edd had not noticed that Davos had left. He did, however, notice that he was now holding a bucket. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw it upon Jon, who cried as it hit him. Steam billowed into the air, but when it cleared, his armor was cooled. 

And he was still alive. Jon seemed as shocked as everyone else. His hands tore at the front of his doublet, and when the sound that flew from his lips as he stared down at the crescent-shaped stab marks in his chest was a choked one.

Davos moved forward and swept his cloak over Jon. The small Lord Commander was then helped to his feet, though his expression was still a dazed one as he was quickly escorted away. 

Edd followed them in the Lord Commander’s solar, where Ser Davos sat Jon down, “Lock the door,” The Onion Knight ordered. Edd did so, then turned to see that tears were gleaming in his friend’s dark eyes.

“They stabbed me,” he said hoarsely, “Olly...he put a knife in my heart.” He looked at his wounds again and his breath trembled, “I shouldn’t be here,” he said in a tight voice.

“After they stabbed you, after you died,” The Red Lady Melisandre emerged from the back of the room. Edd and Davos both jumped as she approached Jon and bent down before him, “Where did you go? What did you see?”

There was a long silence. Edd could tell that Jon was thinking very quickly.

He then shook his head, “Nothing. There was nothing at all.”

Another pause.

“The Lord let you come back for a reason,” Melesandre insisted, “Stannis was not the Prince Who was Promised.” Her hands rose to rest on his arm, “But someone is to be.”

Edd felt Davos bristle next to him, “Oh for fucks sake. Get out, the both of you.”

The Watch was waiting outside. Jon walked a bit unsteadily, but when he appeared, he looked no worse for wear than he had the day before. 

“They think ye some kind of god,” Tormund Giantsbane was the only one that didn’t back away as Jon walked through them, “the man who came back from the dead.”

“I’m not a god.” Jon said quickly.

The wildling tilted his head a fraction, “I know that,” he ambled forward, “I saw yer pecker,” he said seriously, “What kind of god would have a pecker that small?”

Tormund then clasped Jon in a hug. The Lord Commander winced, then looked up at Edd when the wildling pulled away.

He walked toward him and gave him a ginger hug as well, “Well. Your eyes aren’t blue,” Edd told him. They weren’t their usual crow-dark either, though. A ring of fiery golden bronze seethed around his pupils, “That still you in there?”

“Think so,” Jon said numbly, “Think you can leave off burning m’body for now.”

“Funny,” Edd felt his lips twitch into a grin, “ _ Sure  _ that’s still you in there?”

**The Fire Wight**

“Where you gonna go?” Edd asked him.

Jon forced a small smile on his face as he walked over to the table and readied his pack, “South.”

The ranger raised an eyebrow at that, “What are you gonna do?”

“Get warm.”

Edd sighed and set Longclaw down, “I was with you at Hardhome,” he said, “We saw what’s out there, and we know it’s coming here. How can you leave us now?”

“I did everything I could-” Jon began.

“ _ You swore a vow- _ ”

“Aye. I pledged my life to the Night’s Watch, I gave my life-”

“For  _ All nights to come-” _

“They  _ killed _ me, mine own brothers!” Jon snarled, “you want me to stay here after  _ that _ ?”

For a moment, Edd looked as if he was going to punch Jon in the face. But then the horn sounded, and both men whipped toward the door. Jon snatched up Longclaw in his hands as he heard a Brother cry, “ _ Open the gates! _ ”

By the time they had reached the central courtyard of Castle Black, the guests were already inside. Three riders in the midst of dismounting. One was a great, hulking woman with bright blonde hair. She wore a knight’s armor and a sword topped by a lion’s head. Next to her was a dark-haired boy-no doubt her squire.

And the third one was Sansa.

She had grown into a striking lady, tall and fair. Her coppery hair was simply braided and she wore traveler’s clothes, but there was no denying her beauty.

No words were said. Jon walked down the stairs and approached her, unable to believe his eyes. When he got close enough, she bounded toward him, arms open as flew into his embrace. It made the wounds in his chest ache, but he didn’t care. He held Sansa in his arms, grateful beyond words. 

She liked the soup well enough, “Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

“With the peas and onions?” Jon smiled as he recalled.

The two sat in front of the hearth in the common hall. It was late into the evening, most of the Brothers having retreated to their quarters or taking their place atop the wall. The wind was a living thing that night, moaning against the side of the hall, thick with snow. It made Jon imagine they were back at Winterfell in the Great Hall. 

“We should’ve never left Winterfell,” Jon said sadly.

“Don’t you wish we could go back to the day we left?” Sansa lowered her bowl as she stared into the smoldering fire, “I would want to scream at myself, ‘don’t go, you idiot.’”

“How could we know?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you,” Sansa sighed, cutting her gaze over to Jon. Her eyes lingered at his scar, “I wish I could change everything.”

“We were children.” Jon insisted.

“I was awful, just admit it,” a note of playfulness rang in Sansa’s voice as she smirked.

“You were occasionally awful. I’m sure I couldn’t have been great to be around when I sulked in the corner as the rest of you played.” He grinned.

“Can you forgive me?”

Jon shook his head, “There’s nothing to forgive-”

“ _ Forgive me. _ ”

“Alright. Alright,” He smiled as he met her gaze, “I forgive ye.”

Sansa chuckled at the banter, then reached out a hand. Jon, who was holding a horn of ale, rose his eyebrows at her, then wordlessly passed it over.

He laughed when she choked on the ale, “You’d think after thousands of years the Night’s Watch would learn how to make a good ale,” he quipped as he took the horn back.

Sansa eyed him as he lapsed into brooding silence, “Where will you go?”

He hadn’t told her what had happened, but being that there had been thirty witnesses to his resurrection, she had found out quickly enough.  She had gone up to Jon’s quarters afterward and found him amongst his packed belongings.

“Where will  _ we  _ go.” Jon corrected, “If I don’t watch over you Father’s ghost will come back and murder me.”

Sansa nodded, “Where will we go?”

“Can’t stay here. Not after what happened.”

“There’s only one place we can go,” Sansa told him, “Home.”

Jon scoffed, “Should we tell the Bolton’s to pack up and leave?”

“We’ll take it back from them.”

Jon looked up to see that Sansa was no longer smiling. Her eyes met calmly.

“I don’t have an army.”

“How many Wildlings did you save?”

“They didn’t come to serve me.”

“They owe you their lives,” Sansa stood up and walked over the table, “Think they’ll be safe here with Roose Bolton as Warden of the North?”

“Sansa-”

“Winterfell is our  _ home _ . It’s  _ ours.  _ And Arya’s. And Bran’s and Rickon’s wherever they are. It belongs to  _ our family _ and we have to  _ fight  _ for it.”

“I’m  _ tired  _ of fighting,” Jon snarled. Sansa fell silent at that and watched as Jon whipped to his feet and turned to face her, “It’s all I’ve done since I left home. I’ve killed Brothers of the Night’s Watch, I’ve killed Wildlings, I’ve killed men I’ve admired, I hanged a  _ boy.  _ Younger than Bran.” He took a deep breath, “I’ve fought,” Jon said simply, “and I’ve lost.”

Sansa bit her lip, “If we don’t take back the North we’ll never be safe,” she said, “I want you to help me, but I’ll do it myself if I have to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**The Rightful Bastard of Winterfell**

Their army was ragged, but it was all they had.

Jon rode forth as they silently waited at the edge of the Wolfswood. Winterfell hulked on the hills, but between them was an army easily thrice their size, as well as a line of flayed men that had been crucified upside down upon wooden X’s. Jon tried not to imagine who the people might have been. 

Ramsay Bolton picked his way forward atop a dark palfrey. He wore naught but a leather tunic. In his hands was a rope, which was tied around a smaller figure. A figure wearing furs, with a mop of light brown hair.

Rickon.

Ramsay dismounted and strode forward, tugging the boy along. Then he pulled out a dagger.

Leaping off of his horse, Jon made to run, but stopped in his tracks when he watched Bolton cut the ropes binding the youngest Stark’s wrists. He then clasped Rickon’s shoulders in a way that seemed affectionate and was speaking to him. Ramsay then pointed at Jon and gave Rickon a push forward, who began walking, looking over his shoulder in disbelief.

And then one of Ramsay's men handed him a longbow. 

Jon ran back to his horse as fast as he could and was galloping toward his brother in the span of a few moments.

Ramsay’s first arrow struck dirt a few feet away from Rickon. Jon cursed his choice of horse-a heavy-bodied Destrier not suited for speed and spurred it to run faster. The second arrow missed as well. As Jon neared Rickon, he reached out a hand to snatch him up, but the third punched right through Rickon’s chest. He fell to the ground with a strangled gasp and remained there, laying amongst the hoarfrost with his mouth working until he stilled.

Jon stared at the madman. As the Bolton army raised their bows, he charged forward. Ramsay’s men roared in response and raced toward him.

Over the pounding of hoofbeats and warcries, no one heard it. The concussive drumming of massive wings. The clouds were low that day, and no one saw the serpentine shadow until it was too late.

A week before, Jon had dreamed of the green dragon again. With his army already on the move, Jon knew it wasn’t near enough to defeat the Bolton’s, even if they met them in the field. He had gone to sleep with his nerves in a tangle of anxiety and woken up once more in the darkness next to the red-winged dragon. 

He’d grown stronger in the months since Jon first slipped into his skin, and larger as well. The doors of the crypt were blasted open with ease, and he had let the dragon take charge of his wings, merely directing him where to go.  _ West _ . Jon had urged.  _ West and north. _

It was probably a dream, he had told himself. But Jon latched onto the hope it gave him. After five days, he found himself peering through the dragon’s eyes once more, and the beast was soaring over a wall of ice by the sea. 

Jon had woken up on the morning of the battle knowing that the dragon was near. It was as if he could feel it poking at his mind. Reaching out, Jon gasped as he felt himself leaving his body far behind for one that was circling above an endless expanse of icy clouds glowing gold beneath the rise of dawn. A wind made the cover part, and he glimpsed the familiar sight of the round, squat towers atop gentle foothills. 

Returning to his own flesh was harder, like forcing himself to wake from a dream. But he did, and he found himself on the floor, staring up at Tormund.

“Didn’t know you was a warg,” was all that the wildling said as he extended a gloved hand to help Jon to his feet.

_ A warg.  _ “Neither did I,” Jon admitted. He opened his mouth, perhaps to tell Tormund that not all was lost, but instead, he retched all over the bearskin rug that one of the squires kept insisting to place in his tent each time they moved camp. 

Gods. It hit out of nowhere, like a shadowcat in the darkness. The numbness just dissipated and was replaced with a rush of terror that made his skin crawl and his stilled heart twitch painfully in his chest.

He wasn’t aware of when he curled up on the ground, or how long he stayed like that. All Jon knew was that this was all just  _ too much _ . He never wanted this. To send men to their deaths. To hear about his own family- _ his flesh and blood _ -being picked off one by one. Walking deadmen and beings of frost and nightmares and winter and-

“Easy there, m’lord.”

Davos’s gray face slid in and out of focus. A skin was pressed into his hand, and Jon drank like a greedy child. The water was cold, so cold it hurt his teeth, but the frenzy receded as quickly as it had come. 

“It’s quiet outside,” Jon finally observed after standing, “It’s time, then?”

“M’lord. If I might suggest it, perhaps it would be better if you came in with the reserves,” Davos was wearing a dark green tunic over mail-Jon could hear the chain clinking delicately as the old knight studied him with a worried expression half-hidden by his beard. “I know we’d planned for you to lead to footmen, but-”

“I will not send men to their deaths for me while I stay behind and spectate,” Reaching for Longclaw, Jon strapped the sword to his hip and strode out of his tent. 

Ramsay’s army had been lined up neatly before Winterfell, an impressive display of cavalry and archers and footmen with tall shields emblazoned with the Bolton’s flayed man. 

It was daunting to look upon, especially knowing the fact that they were thrice the size of Jon’s ragged forces, but proved to be the perfect target for a dragon.  All he had to do was soar over the line of charging cavalry and belch a torrent of golden fire, and Ramsay’s horses and men fell to the ground either as ash or screaming in agony.

Jon stared at the dragon in awe. It was  _ massive _ , as long as an Ironborn galley. Its wings were the color of sword ferns, a rich green that faded to pale saffron at the edge of each membrane. Its chest was massive, and from it emitted a deafening roar as it flew up into the clouds once more, a jagged shadow that quickly faded in the pale of the clouds. Jon felt the dragon brush his mind, a light caress full of smug satisfaction. 

Ramsay’s army stood there, stunned. For a long moment, the battlefield was silent. Jon scanned the men and spotted Ramsay atop his dark palfrey. While his men were all staring up toward the sky with stunned expressions, the bastard was staring straight at Jon.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” Ramsay jeered at him, his voice ringing through the morning air, “Fucking that Targaryen bitch. Is she with you? Maybe I’ll pay her a visit once I skin you alive and leave my dogs to eat the rest. But don’t worry, bastard. I’ll let Sansa watch as I rape your whore with your gelded cock in one hand and that beast’s heart on a spear in the other.”

The dragon didn’t like that. It yearned to veer around and roast another line of the army, but Jon urged it not to.  _ Not yet.  _ He wanted to kill Ramsay himself.

The battle still went badly. Bolton may have been mad but he was a brilliant tactician, having surrounded Jon’s men with his infantry, their shields and spears preventing escape as they pressed closer and closer in, crushing the smaller army like a rat in the coils of a snake.

Jon’s eyes widened as the dragon contacted him. Instead of words, it merely projected a picture. A picture of knights in gleaming steel astride charging destriers. Of blue banners emblazoned with a crescent moon and falcon. House Arryn. 

_ Oh. _

Sansa had insisted that she could help Jon. He had his doubts about it and dismissed her words, but now he could have kissed her. He watched in relief as the Knights of the Vale plowed through the footmen, freeing him and his men before riding off after the deserters. 

Jon did not kill Ramsay in the end, but came close to it. He ran into Winterfell alongside Tormund and Wun Wun the giant, who sagged onto his knees after bashing in the front gates, looking like a porcupine from all the arrows sticking from his skin. Jon reached a hand out, perhaps to comfort the giant, but Wun Wun had sagged forward, an arrow suddenly having sprouted from his eye. 

Ramsay stood in the courtyard, bow in hand. He looked around at the wildlings surrounding him and sighed.

“You suggested one on one combat, didn’t you?” The bastard asked, cocking an eyebrow. The dragon emerged from the clouds and landed on the rampart. Its bronze eyes glittered malevolently as it eyed Ramsay, a snarl on its lips, “I’ve reconsidered,” Bolton said with a wicked smile, “I think that sounds like a  _ wonderful _ idea.”

Ramsay nocked an arrow in his bow.

Jon snatched up a shield and brought it up to his face. The arrows hit the wood and steel with a heavy smack as Jon marched up to Ramsay, smacking that bow out of his hands. They ended up on the ground, Jon throttling the madman and slugging him in the face over and over. Blood stained his gauntlets, but Bolton grinned weakly under the flurry of Jon’s fists, which enraged him further. He was going to beat this man until his face caved in. He was going to kill him right here and now for everything he had done to Rickon and-

_ Sansa. _ Jon caught her eyes and stopped when he saw the look on her face. Then he looked back down at Ramsay. Sansa got to decide what to do with him. Fighting to urge to spit on the semi-conscious bastard, Jon stood and walked away.

Winterfell was theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So the shitshow continues! I realize the previous chapter was a bit bland, but things will start picking up soon. This is of course based on the TV series, and while the last few seasons were, well...you know, there were still some scenes that I absolutely needed to write because *chef's kiss. You can see where I have begun to make some changes, which will make future events much different. But I did have fun writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed something from it.


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